


A Kind of Holiday

by Katzedecimal



Series: Sherlock Holmes and Doctor... What, son? [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, Developing Relationship, Friendship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-04
Updated: 2014-11-02
Packaged: 2018-01-21 20:55:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1563752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Katzedecimal/pseuds/Katzedecimal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A desperate client engages Sherlock Holmes to undertake a most unusual task - and he surprises everybody by accepting it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FroggyBangBang](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FroggyBangBang/gifts).



(15:17 Phil) Guess who arrived on site to find my favourite kind of crime scene?

(15:20 SH) Oh no.

(15:20 Phil) The kind that screams HEY A CRIME TOOK PLACE HERE

(15:21 SH) Bleach everywhere?

(15:21 Phil) People who watch too much telly.  
(15:22 Phil) They all seem to forget that bleach *bleaches.*  
(15:22 Phil) You can follow where they dragged the body.  
(15:23 Phil) Oh and look, the carpet is missing! Wonder where *that* could have got to?

(15:24 SH) People are so disappointing.  
(15:24 SH) We'll be there in ten.

* * * *

"And this was supposed to be a nice, light-duty assignment," Philip said, "Met's on their way." He looked up and stared. "What'd you do to John, wash him in hot water? Look at him, he's shrunk!"

Sherlock grinned and looked down at the young boy beside him, who had stopped half a pace behind Sherlock and was now peering around his coat. "This is Archie. I've been pressed into service as a babysitter." Philip's Look was equal parts 'Someone asked _you_ to babysit?' and 'And you brought him to a crime scene?' Sherlock's smile took on an edge of pride, "Archie is very interested in solving crimes, so I thought it would be a good learning opportunity for him."

"Ohhhh," Philip said, leaning down a bit to address the boy, "Going to be a detective, are you? Or are you leaning towards forensics?"

"Doctor Anderson is a Forensics Technician," Sherlock supplied, "He analyses crime scenes and identifies evidence." At that, the boy's eyes widened and he stepped forward a pace. 

"Mister Holmes sees everything," Archie declared suspiciously, "What does he need **you** for?"

Philip smiled, "Because there are some things that Mr. Holmes _can't_ see."

"Like what?"

Philip switched on his lamp and threw the ultraviolet beam over the wall, "Like that."

Archie's eyes went wide and his mouth dropped into an O. "Whoaaaaa, **COOL!** What is it?"

"Blood spatter," Sherlock replied.

"Wowwwwwwww!"

"That means a gun was fired here," Philip said, "So we should look for a bullet hole. Where do you think we'll find it?"

Archie frowned, "Ummmmmmm... I dunno. Around here?" He waved vaguely in the general area of the spatter.

"Not quite," Philip grinned, "See how the spray angles up? That tells us that the shot was fired from an angle below where it hit. Well below, in this case. So if we follow the angle, we find.... Aha! Right here!"

"Wowwwwww!"

Sherlock chuckled, watching as Philip pulled out his instruments to measure the angle of the bullet hole and calculate the trajectory, explaining about the deviation from having passed through the victim's body before embedding into the wall. The math went right past Archie but the resulting shooter height didn't. The boy screwed his face into a baffled expression, "Huh? He must've been really short!"

Philip nodded, "So he might have been crouching down. Or he might have been a little boy.... like you!" He waggled his eyebrows comically, making Archie laugh. 

"Or he coulda been in a wheelchair!"

"That's a good thought," Philip said, "How would we know if he was in a wheelchair? What would we look for?"

Archie's face fell again, "Ummmmmmmmmmmmmmmm.... I dunno."

"Well, most wheelchair users are pretty careful about bumping into things. But if you had just killed someone, you might want to get out of here in a hurry, right? So we might look for some skid marks from the tyres or some scratches on the door jamb. And I'll just bet that's what Mr. Holmes is standing in front of right now, am I right?"

"You're right," Sherlock smiled. He stepped away from the door jamb, revealing several scratches and a fresh chip in the wood. "Well done, Archie. And Garth is here so Doctor Anderson can get the warrant he'll need to pull the security footage."

"It's **_Greg!_** " came an exasperated voice from behind him, "What's this kid doing here?"

"Identifying your shooter," Sherlock smirked, "Once Philip has the security footage, I think you'll find that Everett Blair is back in town and starting on another spree. He'll have smuggled the gun in one of his ostomy bags." 

"The body was rolled up in a carpet and taken," Philip added, "If it is Blair again, he's going to be angry. Whoever he hired to clean up after him are complete amateurs."

"Who does the carpets for this building? Find out if they've reported any stolen vehicles," Sherlock said suddenly, "When you review the footage, look for a van."

Philip nodded, "Real disaster recovery workers wouldn't have botched it up like this."

Lestrade nodded, writing it all down. "We'll see if we can't make it stick this time," he sighed, then looked up at Philip, "Anderson, I'll have a warrant for you shortly."

Philip nodded, "I've already sent in a requisition."

"Good to know we can still count on you," Lestrade nodded, "Lord knows we miss you. I wish the higher-ups would get their heads out of their--" he stopped himself with a quick glance at Archie, "-bottoms and bring you back on." 

Philip smiled thinly at that then turned back to Sherlock and his young charge, "Are you able to visit? They'll need us to clear out, do you want to come back for grilled bananas?"

 _"Grilled bananas?"_ Archie said incredulously, looking up at Sherlock with a hopeful expression.

Sherlock's text alert chirped and he nodded, "Yes. She says she's delayed, so we have some extra time."

"Yay!" He skipped along behind them, following them out to Philip's car. "Who was that?" he asked Philip, "And why did he say they miss you?"

"That was Detective Inspector Lestrade. He used to be my team leader when I worked for the Yard," Philip replied a little ruefully. 

"You're not a policeman anymore?"

Philip shook his head, "Not anymore. Now I'm a security guard." And this time he wasn't able to keep the bitterness out of his voice.

"Why?"

"Because he suspected that I'd faked my death," Sherlock replied, "And he was right. And the grown-ups didn't like that."

Archie frowned then looked at Philip again, "But if you were right, why don't they let you be a policeman again?"

"Because that would mean admitting they were wrong," Sherlock smirked, "And grown-ups **really** don't like that." Philip nodded sadly as he drove, knowing that Sherlock had hit it exactly on why they hadn't hired him back. 

Archie's frown deepened, "That doesn't make any sense."

"Nothing grown-ups do makes sense," Sherlock agreed, "That's why I've tried to avoid being one." Philip laughed out loud at that. He led the way up to his flat then went to the kitchen to put a griddle on the hob and rummage in the fridge, leaving Sherlock to look at his case wall. "You're fixating on that plant in Magnusson's office?" 

"Yeahhhh," Philip said as he brought out a plate of vegetable crudites and some dip, "It's been bothering me and I haven't been able to let it go." He set the plate down on the coffee table in front of Archie, "There you go! Peanut butter salad!"

 _"Peanut butter salad?!?"_ Archie said incredulously, then immediately snatched up a carrot stick and dunked it into the dip. Sherlock smiled at him then looked back at the wall. Part of it was covered with images taken from Magnusson's security camera on the night that Sherlock was shot. Archie wandered over to look, too. "Why's there only one plant?" he asked.

"Yeah," Philip nodded, "And it's right smack dab in the middle of the room. It's not exactly placed decoratively, is it?"

"It's right in the middle of the security camera's view," Sherlock noticed.

"Look here. This is a few frames earlier, just before you were shot--"

Archie's head whipped around to stare up at Sherlock, "Did somebody shoot you?! Did you die?!"

A quick grin flickered across Sherlock's mouth, "Briefly. But as you can see, I got better."

"Cool!! Are you like Jesus?" 

Both men looked at each other then broke into laughter. "Definitely not," Sherlock said, grinning, then looked at Philip, "You were saying?"

"This frame here. This is just before you were shot. What's Magnusson doing?"

"He appears to be reaching for something."

"On the floor? And then a few seconds later, the plant moves."

"Maybe it's a signal!" Archie offered through a mouthful of celery. 

The two men looked at each other then back at the array of images. "And it's smack in the centre of the security camera's field." Philip pressed his lips together then went to the kitchen to turn the bananas on the griddle. A few minutes later, he was back out with the grilled bananas, dressed with butter and syrup. Archie immediately abandoned the vegetables in favour of consuming a banana with noisy enthusiasm.

Sherlock watched him for a moment then turned back to the images. "A signal to whom?" 

* * * * 

_"Why wouldn't you tell me?" John had asked, "After everything, and you wouldn't tell me about the assassin? You still wouldn't tell me why? Why not?"_

_And Sherlock had just shrugged helplessly and admitted, "Because then you would know how I feel about you." John had fallen silent and Sherlock had continued, not looking at him, "You're not gay. It would have put us both into a situation that neither of us particularly wanted to be in."_

John was still processing that. Together with the information that Sherlock had suffered physical and psychological harm during his time away, it was a lot to process and John didn't at all like the picture he was receiving. A Sherlock who'd been banished from everything he knew and thrust into locations where he didn't know the streets, didn't know the customs, and wasn't half as effective (although a half-effective Sherlock was still doing better than most people at their best.) A Sherlock who's motivation was to keep safe a man he knew he might never see again. A Sherlock who'd suffered and struggled and killed, driven by a love he had no hope of ever being requited.

He'd caught a glimpse of that love on his wedding day. When he'd married someone else, in front of the man who loved him that devotedly.

 _Christ, no wonder he left so early,_ John thought. He put away the dish that he'd been drying. Sherlock had done all of that, with no hope that John would ever look at him the way that he'd looked at Mary. _I'm an incredibly selfish idiot,_ he thought, _Am I really that selfish? Am I so desperate to be loved that I'll take it from anybody?_ His gut boiled at the thought. _Or am I going where I belong?_ Abruptly his gut was clear, so suddenly that it left him feeling bewildered. 

He dunked another plate under the water and polished it with the washing-up rag. He was thinking about the Turkish baths. He was thinking about how he'd felt when he realised that Sherlock had brought them there and bought him a full course of treatments, just for John. When he realised that Sherlock had seen John hurting and wanted to help, in his odd, pragmatic way. He thought about how he felt when he woke in the night from his bloody dreams and rolled to find Sherlock right there, warm and solid, to hold onto. _Anderson is right. I feel more when I'm with Sherlock._

The door opened and Sherlock walked in. John felt warmth bubble up in his chest, up his throat, and spread itself into a smile across his face. Hyper chatter followed him and Archie bounced in, literally. Sherlock hung up his coat, never once taking his attention away from the child's enthusiasm. John shook his head as he put the last dish away -- Only someone at their wits' end would ask Sherlock Holmes to babysit!

The bell rang and John went downstairs to admit a woman. "Archie!" he called up, "Your Mum's here!"

"Thank you **so** much for taking him," the woman said, "He's such a terror to everyone else but he just loves Mr. Holmes."

"Kindred spirits," John deflected.

"MUMMY!!!" and pounding feet as a bundle of energy bounded down the stairs to hug his mother, "Guess what **we** did today!!!" John shot a nervous glance at Sherlock, who was biting his lip. "We saw Mr. Holmes' friend Mr. Anderson an' he made _peanut butter salad!_ " They both breathed again. 

"He's quite a clever cook," Sherlock added.

"Thank you so much for looking after him," she said. 

"Quite alright, Mrs. Andrews," Sherlock smiled his Polite Smile, which tended to unnerve people.

"G'bye, Mr. Holmes, thank you!!" Archie waved as he tagged after his mother. Sherlock waved back, his smile rather more genuine this time. 

John closed the door after them then glanced up at Sherlock, "You're going to get in trouble one of these days, you realise that?"

Sherlock shrugged, "I usually am, for one thing or another."

"Good day out, then?" John asked as they went back up into the flat. 

"Mmm," Sherlock nodded, "Everett Blake is back in town. How many people would suggest that the shooter was in a wheelchair?"

John pinched the bridge of his nose, "You took a child to the scene of a shooting?"

"Archie's got potential," Sherlock shrugged. He crossed over to the case wall and started adding stickies. "It should be nurtured."

"Really not the point," John said, coming over to look, "'Signal?'"

Sherlock nodded again, "Archie's got potential. Anderson noticed Magnusson reaching to the side a few frames before the plant moved. Archie speculated that it might have been a signal of some kind. Given that it's the only plant in the room and it's right smack in the centre of the security camera's field of view, I can't discount that possibility, as bizarre as it sounds."

"Who would he have been signalling? And why?"

"'Why,' well, he had an assassin holding him at gunpoint and I'd just taken her attention off of him long enough for him to hit a switch, if that's what he was reaching for. 'Who'," Sherlock sighed and shook his head, "Mary's information indicated that he was high up in the oligarchy but not one of the leaders. He was still a lieutenant, if you will, but he was aiming higher."

John nodded, "With his mind, his resources, and his power base, that's not surprising. And he was gunning for Mycroft; probably hoped to present him as his proof of worth, sort of thing." Something started to ping at the back of Sherlock's mind but it wouldn't come forward. "Take-away's hot. I put it in the oven. Did you eat over at Anderson's? Archie said something about 'peanut butter salad?'"

Sherlock turned away from the wall with a smirk, "Yes, he brought out a dip made with peanut butter instead of tahini. Served it with vegetables."

John snorted, "Sounds like a brilliant way to get kids to eat vegetables."

"It certainly worked on Archie. He nearly filled up on it before he got to his banana."

"At least his Mum can't say he filled up on junk food," John agreed as he brought out bowls of take-away. He set them on the coffee table then flipped on the telly and turned it to one of his police procedural programmes. Sherlock sat beside him on the couch and tucked his feet up, drawing his knees up to his chest and balancing his bowl on them. After several minutes, John noticed Sherlock's feet jiggling with agitation and he was biting his lip with the effort of restraining himself. John chuckled and shook his head, "Oh, go ahead."

"It was the nanny! Look at the mud on her ankles!"

"Oh god, Sherlock," John fell against him, laughing. Sherlock grinned at him. He put his bowl down then leaned against John, a bit hesitantly. They watched the programme for a bit, John giggling as Sherlock denounced the show's forensics technicians as being inspired by the Yard's current crop of failures. 

_"Why wouldn't you tell me?" John had asked, "After everything, and you wouldn't tell me about the assassin? You still wouldn't tell me why? Why not?"_

_And Sherlock had just shrugged helplessly, unable to hide behind his usual misdirections. He felt split open and exposed, like a frog, pinned for dissection. He was in a delicate spot with John but he wasn't good at this, this wasn't his area, but if he deflected now, John would draw away. He struggled with the words, desperately afraid of messing it up and losing John again._

John looped his arm around Sherlock's shoulders. He was tense but Sherlock couldn't identify the reason. "What's bothering you?" Sherlock asked softly. 

John was silent for a few moments. "I realised something," he said finally, "About Mary. At Leinster Gardens." Sherlock waited, feeling the tension in John's body. He was staring straight ahead, not looking at Sherlock but not really seeing the telly either. "That coin she shot... You wanted to see it and she kicked it over to you. She shot you and you were in pain and she made you bend to pick up the coin. She didn't have to do that." Sherlock chewed his lip but said nothing. "She didn't have to do that."

"No," Sherlock agreed, "No, she didn't, did she."

"But you're still convinced that she was......."

"That she genuinely wished to leave her profession and settle down with you?" Sherlock finished, then shrugged, "Perhaps, but... I _have_ been mistaken before." John glanced at him and Sherlock's lip twitched into a quarter-smile, "There's always _something._ "

"Yeah there is," John sighed with a little smile, rubbing Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock frowned and turned towards the case wall. "What?"

"There's always something," Sherlock murmured, "And I'm missing it."

"If you are, then it isn't obvious," John pointed out, "It never is, whenever you have missed something. Like Harry being my sister, not my brother."

"Hngh," Sherlock grunted, not mollified, "This whole situation.... I thought I was finally done with Moriarty's network and it turns out I barely dented the tip of the iceberg."

John nodded, "Which means it's really subtle. Well, if they had someone like Magnusson working for them. If Moriarty was as smart as you, Magnusson was at least as smart as Mycroft."

"Not helpful," Sherlock growled.

John laughed. "Come on," he said, clapping Sherlock's shoulder, "Let's go to bed. You've had a case so no excuses."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock are developing a fondness for the Turkish baths, after a new case forces Sherlock to do something he really doesn't want to do. 
> 
> Also, Lestrade finds out how Sherlock keeps his promises to little boys.

The door into 221b was slightly ajar and Philip pushed it open, "You summoned?"

Sherlock looked up and his mouth quirked into the tight half-smile he wore around Philip. "Ah, Philip, perfectly timed."

"Doctor Anderson!!" 

Abruptly Philip was tackle-hugged by a small whirlwind. "Hey there, little buddy!" he grinned, ruffling the young boy's hair.

"You brought your kit as I asked?" Sherlock said.

"I sure did!" Philip held it up, grinning at Archie. He looked at the chops arrayed on the table beside Sherlock's microscope, 

"So what's up, a school science project?"

"Not quite," Sherlock smiled, "Archie's been complaining that the meat at school canteen has been off lately, so I asked him to bring one and we'd do a DNA analysis. Since this is in your area, I thought you might like to participate."

Philip beamed. Sherlock was perfectly capable of doing his own DNA testing and didn't need Philip's help one whit. "I'd love to help out, thanks for thinking of me," he said. He set his kit down and opened it. Archie peered at the contents with wide, excited eyes. "Can you guess what we need to use to extract the DNA?" 

Archie shook his head, making his curls jump, "Do you need some kind of acid?"

"Nope - the answer'll surprise you," Philip said and noticed Sherlock moving. "We need salt-" Sherlock set a box of salt onto the table. "Some kind of detergent, like washing-up liquid-" The washing-up bottle was liberated from the kitchen sink. "And some very, **very** cold ethanol, which is a type of alcohol." A bottle was removed from the freezer and set down, dew already beading on its surface. "And we're ready to begin!"

Only a few minutes later, it seemed, they were interrupted by a sharp "Mr. Holmes!" Philip looked up to see that several hours had gone by and there was a woman standing at the door, staring at them with a wary, worried expression. "Just **what** are you teaching my son?!"

Philip and Sherlock looked at each other and chorused, "Forensics!"

The woman blinked and Philip seized the opportunity, "You must be Archie's mother. I'm Philip Anderson, forensics technician formerly of New Scotland Yard, I've worked with Sherlock for years, you must be **so** proud of Archie. Forensics is a fascinating career and Archie has a natural talent, he shows amazing promise, he's very keen and he's an absolute joy to teach. You should absolutely encourage him to pursue his studies, he could go far!"

Mrs. Andrews blinked again, slightly shellshocked by the babble and the praise to her quirky son, "Oh, uh, thank you... Yes of course, he's very clever, but... forensics, isn't that...?"

"It absolutely is," Philip agreed, "And yet it's also so rewarding. Uncovering the evidence that helps to find someone's missing child? Or catch a burglar and return someone's property? Putting a name on an unknown person? Giving people closure? Honestly, Mrs. Andrews, it's so rewarding and Archie has the potential to be the best. Perhaps he could show you what he's learned? He could take a swab from your cheek and show you your own DNA!"

"Mummy, it's so cool! It uses washing-up stuff!"

"Washing-up liquid?" said Mrs. Andrews, who knew how to bait a hook, "Well if you help me with the washing-up after tea, then maybe you can show me after."

"Okay!!" The boy ran over and fiercely hugged first Sherlock, then Philip. "Bye-bye Mr. Holmes, bye-bye Mr. Anderson! Thank you for babysitting me again I really like it!"

"Bye-bye, Archie," Sherlock smiled as he saw them out. The door clicked shut and he turned to look at Philip with grudging admiration, "That was well done."

Philip smiled and shrugged, "It's a fine line between familial pride and AHMAHGAHDFORENSICS!"

Sherlock chuckled lowly, "I know."

"Good call on the mystery meat," Philip nodded, "The canteen at work has been serving mystery meat as well, I've been tempted to test it, what with the horse meat scandal and all."

Sherlock nodded, "Yes exactly. I expect we'll find it's just inferior quality lamb but I saw an opportunity."

"And it was a lot of fun. Thanks for inviting me." He checked his watch and sighed, "Time to go do the boring work thing."

"My sympathies," Sherlock nodded, "Let me know if you test the canteen chops. I'm curious."

"I will. Later!"

* * * *

(05:07 P. Anderson) Do you know of any serial killers active right now?

(05:10 SH) Identified what your canteen chops were?

(05:11 P. Anderson) Yep. Working on who they were, now.

* * * *

"I've called the Yard, they're sending someone 'round. I've asked for Gord.. Greg. Fuck, now you've got **me** doing it."

Sherlock smiled thinly but grew serious again as he handed Philip a plastic zip bag of meat samples. "This is the chop Archie brought to me. It didn't match beef, lamb, goat or horse, so I took a cheek swab."

"Oh dear God," Philip sighed.

"And Molly's checking the chops from the Bart's canteen."

"There too?"

"There've been comments."

Philip shook his head, "Well, at least you won't be bored."

Sherlock's lip quirked in his version of a smile. "Toronto is rather nice this time of year. Colourful," he commented, "Taking a bit of holiday?" 

Philip looked at him, then realised he'd left his travel brochure out. "And that, too," he said, "You've been there?"

"Oh yes, several times. Canada has some quite creative criminals," Sherlock replied, "Thefts of over twelve million pounds worth of maple syrup and of over half a million bees, great escapes by helicopter, they're just not the sorts of crimes you find in England." 

Philip laughed, "Oh God, those were real? Did they call you?"

Sherlock nodded, "They did. They thought I might be interested. Of course I was interested, who steals that much maple syrup? It turns out there are cartels and even a maple syrup mafia." Philip laughed again and he smiled, then he glanced at Philip's case wall. "What threads are you pursuing today?" He frowned, "Oh, me again? I thought you were past that?"

"Not quite," Philip snickered, "Different angle, this time." He came over and pointed to the map, "I kept thinking about the cases you'd solved while you were away. The pattern of them, I'd worked out that you were on your way back but I was thinking about it the other night and I wondered why the pattern was so obvious."

Sherlock stared at the pins in the map. "You think I was being steered back to London?"

"I didn't, at first," Philip said, "Until I saw this. It's a still from the cameras you had me set up at Leinster Gardens."

"Mary."

"Yeah. Here's the sequence. See, she kicks something to you, you bend down to pick it up, and then this."

"She's smiling," Sherlock stared at the image.

"It's literally 'blink and you miss it.' The first seven times I watched it, I missed it. My attention was on you and it's that fast. You're obviously in a lot of pain but she makes you bend down and then just for an instant, she's grinning." Sherlock just stared at the image. He'd gone pale. "So then I started thinking, you'd told me she was an assassin and all bets were off if there was any sign you were alive. So I put all this together and it looks like they already knew. It looks like you and John were being steered towards a black widow." 

Sherlock actually lurched as memories flooded him. Mary in the restaurant, crying _"Do you realise what you've done?"_ \-- he'd thought she'd meant the pain he'd put John through, but now, she could have meant something else entirely. 

"...Are you alright? You've gone grey!"

"You should be wearing the hat," Sherlock croaked, "You're not the idiot, I am. I've made a colossal mistake."

* * * *

Detective Inspector _Greg_ Lestrade pressed the heels of his hands against his eye sockets for a few seconds, then let out a heavy sigh and looked up. "So far, we've identified seven of the victims we've found. Their occupations seem to be appropriate to the venues where they were shipped to, mostly canteens. Somebody is working to an agenda. We're working back through the supply chain now." 

Sherlock looked impassive but Lestrade wasn't fooled -- cannibalism cases disturbed him as much as anyone. The car pulled up and they got out. They walked up the steps to the flat, then Greg visibly nerved himself and rang the bell. A woman opened the door, smiled when she saw Sherlock, then looked puzzled as Lestrade showed his badge. "Is Archie in trouble?"

Sherlock closed his eyes briefly, remembering all the times his own mother had asked that question. "Not at all," Lestrade replied, "We're here on an investigation and we're hoping Archie can help us with our inquiries. May we talk?"

Mrs. Andrews looked worried, "He's not home from judo practice yet but please, yes, come in." She ushered them into the sitting room and went to make tea. 

They looked at each other, neither of them looking forward to this. Lestrade sighed and looked around the flat. Then his eye fell on something on the book shelf and he stared. "What the hell is that?"

Sherlock followed his gaze and chuckled, "Oh, that's the headless nun I promised him at John's wedding. I scoured eBay for hours, looking for the habit."

"You _ripped the head off a Barbie doll_??"

"What else was I supposed to do?"

The front door opened and they glanced at each other then watched the young boy kick his shoes off and hang up his jacket. Then he looked up and his face exploded in an excited grin, " **MR. HOLMES!** "

"Hello, Archie-- ** _oof,_** " Sherlock rocked back as he was tackle-hugged. He patted the boy's back then nerved himself. "Archie, this is Detective Inspector Lestrade. He's here to talk to you about the chops at the school canteen."

"Is it an investigation?? Did you find out what the chops were??"

"Is it another horse meat scandal?" Mrs. Andrews asked as she came in. She set the tea tray down and took a seat close to her son.

"We are investigating, yes, and we were hoping you could help us with our inquiries," Lestrade said.

"Okay!!" Archie beamed up at his mother, who gave a nervous smile.

"Okay," Lestrade nodded, "Archie, can you tell us when you first noticed something was wrong with the meat?"

Archie tilted his head, "Ummmmm.... I think it was... not quite a fortnight ago?"

"Did anyone else notice? Maybe earlier?"

Archie closed his eyes and concentrated, "Ummm... Maybe? I _think_ Sarah Middleton said something but she complains about everything anyways so nobody cared."

"Can you think of the kind of meat that you were served? The size of the chops? The cut of the meat?"

"Ummmmm.... 'Bout that big?" Archie held his hands cupped in a circle, "The chops had a little round bone near the middle. I never saw chops like that before. I guess they were steaks?"

"Were all of the steaks about that size?"

"Ummmmm not all of them. Some were about that big."

"Did any of the mince taste off to you?"

"Or the sausages," Sherlock murmured. Lestrade shot him a quick look. 

Archie nodded his head up and down, "Yeah. The meatloaf always tastes bad but the hamburgers are pretty good until they weren't."

"When did you notice that they weren't?"

"Last week. Monday," the boy added conscientiously.

"Did many other children comment about the taste of the meat, aside from you and Sarah?"

"A few, yeah."

"Any of the grown-ups?"

Archie shook his head, sending his curls flying. "I don't think so. I guess most people didn't care."

"You're most likely right," Lestrade agreed. 

"So what was it?"

"It's horse meat again?" Mrs. Andrews asked, "Was the whole district affected? What about our markets?"

"We're broadening our investigation," Lestrade assured her.

"But what was it?"

"I bet it's that horse meat again," Mrs. Andrews said distastefully, "The regulators need to think less about companies' pockets and more about people's safety."

"Thank you for your cooperation, Archie. You've been very helpful."

"But you haven't told me what the chops were!" Archie turned to appeal to Mr. Holmes with puppy eyes.

"Archie, behave, these gentlemen are very busy." 

Sherlock looked away, for once grateful that people like Mrs. Andrews were too caught up in their own stories to notice anything else. 

"Is it people?!" ......and then there was Archie. "It's people, isn't it. Because Mummy thinks it's horse but you haven't said and you won't tell me what it is and Mr. Holmes, you _always_ tell me things." Sherlock and Lestrade exchanged a quick glance that spoke volumes. 

"Is it?" Mrs. Andrews' voice was tight.

Finally Sherlock said, "Yes, it is."

"Oh my God!" Mrs. Andrews gathered her son against her protectively, "Why hasn't it been in the news? Hasn't anybody noticed?"

"The victims were all homeless," Sherlock said quietly.

Lestrade nodded, "Our government hasn't exactly been friendly towards homelessness recently."

"I ate people?"

"He said the chops were small." Mrs. Andrews tried to cover Archie's ears but the boy spun out of her grasp. 

"The victims appear to be... appropriate to the environment in which they've been found."

"Are you telling me-*" She broke off as Archie began to retch and Sherlock swung a waste basket under him. 

Lestrade sighed, "We were hoping to avoid having to tell you this so early but young Archie here seems to be very good at spotting what's missing." He smiled sadly, "We'd appreciate if you kept it to yourselves until we're further in our investigations. An announcement will be forthcoming and we **will** arrange for the best therapists."

"Oh God....!"

"Please remember one thing, Mrs. Andrews," Sherlock said softly. He was rubbing Archie's back while the boy cried against him. "If Archie hadn't brought me that chop, we might never have known. We **will** find the people responsible for this. Lives will be saved because of Archie. Remember that."

* * * *

It was a dark and clammy evening. The damp chill was setting in rapidly, aggravating the ache in John's shoulder. He looked at the timetable on his laptop and rubbed his chin. Sherlock had been quiet lately, the brooding quiet that indicated something was bothering him. He'd been over-protective lately, too, following John just about everywhere. He'd even accompanied John to the Tesco, something he normally avoided if at all possible. Something was wrong and it had to do with John. 

He clicked the booking just as he heard the key in the outer lock, then got up to pour a cup of tea. He watched Sherlock as the other man hung up his coat and scarf. He looked... haunted, John decided. Wordlessly, he handed Sherlock the mug of hot tea, noting the way Sherlock's fingertips lingered on his for just a moment. "Got a new case, then?"

Sherlock sipped a few times before he answered, "Serial killer."

"You don't seem very pleased about it. Another serial killer usually sends you hopping about the flat. What's different about this one?"

"They're preying on the homeless."

John nodded cautiously. The homeless were frequent targets for predators but they were also Sherlock's trustees; people who preyed on them earned Sherlock's special attention. "Which usually makes you angry. And it's not usually this difficult to pry details out of you. What is it, then?"

"The victims have been showing up in the food chain, mostly canteens. Government offices, schools, Barts - the pattern is obvious. The killer is someone who's experienced homelessness and feels victimised by the system. They're murdering homeless children and adults and feeding them to the people in those locations to symbolise how the system consumes the homeless."

John swallowed hard. "God... the things people do." He shook his head. "Alright. So?"

"We didn't know about it. **I** didn't know about it. People have been going missing and nobody alerted me, I didn't realise until Archie brought me the chops from his school canteen."

John stared at him, "The chops from school."

"Lestrade told me he had to go to interview Archie so I went along. His mother thought it might be horse meat but Archie's more clever than that."

"So you had to tell him." Sherlock nodded and John's breath exploded out of him. No wonder Sherlock was so upset. John looked at him again, pretty certain he'd made the right choice. "How d'you feel about the baths, then? My shoulder's giving me gyp so I booked us in." The hook of John's shoulder did the trick -- Sherlock nodded almost immediately. He finished his tea then went to get the pack he usually brought to the baths. 

He was quiet during the cab ride. "Thought we'd try the 'Moroccan Mud' thing this time," John said to break the silence, "It's a whole bunch of cleansing muds they rub you down with, then shower off." Sure enough, Sherlock brought out his phone and started tapping, no doubt looking up the offering. He stopped and his eyebrow shot up, then he shot a quick glance at John. 

Who didn't realise _why_ until they were actually ushered into the mud room, after their long soaks in the steam baths. John walked in and looked at the tray with the bowls of different colours of mud, then the door closed behind them, leaving them alone. 

"Um..."

"You didn't read the description very closely, did you?" Sherlock's voice was amused. 

John's brow creased as comprehension dawned. "There's a therapist, isn't there?"

Sherlock shook his head. "No. It's just us."

"Oh, ffffffffff.... Bugger." No wonder they'd been getting knowing little grins from the attendants all evening. He pushed his hand through his hair. "Sorry, Sherlock."

"It's fine," Sherlock said, reaching for a bowl of mud, "I don't mind."

John sighed and picked up a bowl of his own, "I suppose I don't mind, either, if you don't mind."

"You do. You always mind. It's something I've never understood, why it bothers you so much, what people say."

"And **I** don't understand why it doesn't bother **you** ," John retorted, spreading a handful of mud on himself, "Especially after that Janine went and trashed your reputation."

Sherlock actually laughed, "John, we live in a society that is **obsessed** with sex and she painted me out to be a sexual dynamo, exactly _how_ did she damage my reputation? If anything, she enhanced it!"

John broke into hysterical giggles - Sherlock had a point. "Only _you_ would think of it like that," he said, throwing a blob of mud at Sherlock's chest, "Bloody drama queen."

" **I'm** a drama queen?!" Mud landed on John's chest with a _*glop*_ "'Three years in Afghanistan, veteran of Khandahar, Helmand, and Barts bloody hospital', what was that, then?" _*splap*_ _*blorp*_

"Well they weren't showing respect!" _*splat*_

"Exactly!" _*pap*_ _*splut*_ "People are _*splut*_ raised on a diet of _*plap* *blut*_ sensationalised media, John. Drama is all they respond to."

By now they were both laughing and covered in mud, flinging handfuls at each other with abandon. "Here's mud in your eye, or near to," John said and reached out to smooth the blob down Sherlock's cheek. 

Sherlock reached up to smooth the mud down John's shoulder and begin working it. They smoothed the mud over each other, then smoothing changed to stroking and John whispered, "What else is bothering you, Sherlock? I can tell it's not just the case. You've gotten over-protective of me lately and your nightmares have gotten worse."

"John, I... I've made a terrible error."

"What kind of error?"

Sherlock hesitated then admitted, "A human error." John said nothing but waited for him to continue. He didn't resist as Sherlock looped his arms around John's waist and drew him close, though his breath caught when their bathing trunks brushed and Sherlock's breath caressed his ear and he whispered, "Mary is alive." John jerked his head back and stared at Sherlock. "It was very touch and go but she survived the surgery. I... I let sentiment get to me. I pleaded her case with Mycroft. I got her accepted as my replacement on the Serbian mission. I'm sorry, John, it was the best either of us could do."

John felt his eyes well up with tears. "You... You did that for her... for me..."

Sherlock nodded, "And it was a terrible mistake. I'm sorry, John, I may just have signed our death warrant."

"What do you mean?"

He told John about the picture on Anderson's case wall and said, "When I first came back, she said 'Do you realize what you've done?' I thought she meant what I had done to you but in light of this, she may have meant that I'd reactivated the contract against you. And me, since Moriarty intended me to die as well." 

John's jaw tightened as it sank in. "But she's gone? She's in Serbia now?"

"John, Mycroft was certain that I would be killed six months into the Serbian mission but he bargained for me..."

"Because that's six months with a chance of escape," John finished, "And Mary... If she's that good..."

Sherlock nodded, "And it's looking like she is. She could find that chance, John."

"So she could escape and come back after us." John blew out a sigh then looked at Sherlock shrewdly, "That's not the end of it, is it."

Sherlock chewed his lip a few times before admitting, "Mycroft authorised facial surgery."

John sucked in his breath but his stream of shouted curses was blocked by Sherlock's hand, reminding him that they were in a public bath house. He breathed heavily, getting his temper under control. "So we might not even know it's her."

"John..."

" **Bloody** hell."

"John, I'm sorry. I honestly thought..."

"I know. I know. So did I." John scrubbed his muddy fingers through his hair and sighed. "Well, a slim chance of escape means a lot larger chances that she won't escape. And who knows? - maybe you were right about her wanting to escape that kind of life. Maybe she'll find someone else to settle down with. You gave her that chance." He looked up to see Sherlock looking so woe-begone that he couldn't help himself and drew the other man into a tight hug. They sank down onto the bench together, sitting hip to hip and John looped his arm around Sherlock's shoulders. "What did I do to deserve you," he whispered, "Hm? My whole life..." He saw Sherlock's hurt expression and realised he was quoting himself. "What did I do to deserve someone as wonderful as you?"

"I don't understand."

John burst into giggles and hugged Sherlock tighter, "And I'm not sure I can explain."

Sherlock looked away. "I'm not wonderful, John. I'm...." He trailed off. 

John gazed at him and something slid into place. "Did you think I could hold that against you?" he whispered, "Me? Three years in Afghanistan, veteran of Kandahar and Helman?" 

The ghost of a smile twitched Sherlock's lips and he looked back at John. "How do you deal with it?" he asked finally.

John tilted his head to stare at Sherlock, thinking. Finally he shrugged, "The same way you deal with the things you've seen." 

Sherlock thought about that for a moment. "Acting," they chorused and grinned at each other. John shook his head, "Theirs are the faces in my nightmares. As for dealing, well... I remind myself of how many people they'd killed before I got to them and how many people will live because I did."

"Does it help?"

"No. Most of them had families."

Sherlock tipped his head, conceding, "There's that, I suppose. Although there's a rumour he had a brother."

"Nah, that's no good, lots of people have brothers. Moriarty has a brother. _You_ have a brother."

"I do not. I have an annoying plague."

"There's creams for that now." They both broke into giggles. 

Sherlock skootched a bit lower so he could rest his head against John's shoulder and John leaned his cheek against Sherlock's curls. "John?" Sherlock said after a few moments, "Does this count as snuggling?"

"Nope."

"Oh. What is it, then?"

John pursed his lips. One of these days he was going to run out of words for these activities that were definitely Not Snuggling. Finally he said, "It's canoodling."

And felt Sherlock start to shake against him. " _Canoodling?!_ Do people actually say that?"

They laughed until the shower started, raining down and rinsing away the mud. "Come on," John said gently, "Let's clean up and go home. I'll put the kettle on and you can play your violin until I go to bed."


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock each come to some significant realisations.

"So what's this 'thing with peas' I keep hearing about?"

John chuckled and shook his head, "It's just a fried rice dish that I picked up in the military. It really isn't anything special. I really didn't think Sherlock had even noticed it, although he does eat it."

Philip grinned. "Now the cream."

"Cream in this? Really?"

"Really. Don't worry, he'll love it."

"You seem awfully certain about that."

"Not really," Philip grinned, "He loves everything you cook for him, though." John just shook his head again but couldn't help a brief little smile. "How are things going between you?" 

The little smile faded. "I just... I wish I knew what he wanted."

Philip tipped his head, "How so?"

John blew out a sigh. "When we first met, he said he was 'married to his work,' basically he was uninterested. Now, I mean obviously some of that's changed but... I keep waiting for him to _do_ something but..."

Philip's brow crinkled up in puzzlement, "Why?"

"Well... If he was interested..."

"I mean, I think he'd be the first to agree this isn't his area," Philip said, "Quite frankly, it's yours, you're the one who's always getting girlfriends." John just stared at him. "I mean, this is just a guess, but considering how much he values your presence in his life and his frankly abominable track record with people generally and how his last attempt at dating went, and the fact that you've been non-gay for ages, I'd hazard that he's just afraid of rocking the boat too much."

John stared down at the simmering frypan then looked up again, "What do you mean, his last attempt at dating? Do you mean Janine? That wasn't real."

Philip looked puzzled, "Janine? No, he was dating Molly Hooper. You know, from Bart's?" 

Now it was John's turn to look puzzled, "He dated Molly?"

"Well, sort of. It didn't work out, though."

_When did he date Molly?_ John wanted to ask but didn't. He felt bleak, wondering just how little attention he'd paid to Sherlock over the past year that he'd never noticed. 

They both looked up when the buzzer rang. Philip opened the door to reveal Sherlock himself and John couldn't stop the smile that spread across his face or the bubbling warmth that always went with it. "Hello," he grinned, "Tea's just about up if you want a bite. It's chicken and he's **certain** about that." Sherlock's lips twisted into his quirky half-smile. "How'd it go with Archie?"

It was several moments before Sherlock reluctantly admitted, "It would have gone better with you there."

"Uh oh."

"Apparently answering 'I wonder what it actually tastes like?' with 'I couldn't really tell, the fennel covered it up' is a bit not good." 

John burst into giggles and Philip nearly launched his beer out his nostrils. "Oh God, the sausages!"

Sherlock flexed an eyebrow at him, "Ah that's right, this is the second time for you, isn't it?"

"Honestly, I'd've preferred the sausages. I don't know what my fellow was eating but I swear I could taste the preservatives, like when you eat bologna."

John's face squinched up, "Oh God, please don't." Sherlock and Philip both grinned and John rolled his eyes, "Anyways, **you** don't seem all that upset about it, Phil."

"Yeah tell that to my loo," Philip scoffed, "I guess it's something of a job hazard. Everyone on the force knows it could happen and dreads it, that day you come across a cannibal killer. Some people spend their entire careers without it ever happening and I guess Sherlock and I got the short straws."

Sherlock chuckled lightly then glanced over Philip's case wall. "A mugging?"

Philip nodded sadly, "My nephew, the older one. He's got meth issues. They picked him up for robbery with violence. I combed through the footage to back up the evidence. He was twerking at the time."

Sherlock paused for a moment. "'Tweaking', I think you'll find." John started giggling.

"My sister still won't believe it," Philip sighed, shaking his head, "We never want to believe it when it's our family. We never want to believe our family could really be that bad. She has a whole bunch of other hypotheses but.." He shrugged and waved a hand at the image, "Occam's Razor."

"Hm. No, I believe that's a hunting knife." Sherlock smirked as Philip laughed, then frowned as he twitched aside an image, exposing another one buried underneath. "Where did you get _that?!"_

Philip looked, "Yeahhhhhh, I was going to bring that to your attention once I found there was more of them." He pulled open a drawer and took out a few more images. 

Sherlock stared. _"How?"_

"Apparently, ever since the union talks collapsed, our firm has provided security for that airport."

Sherlock pinched the bridge of his nose, "And how long have you had them?"

"That's the interesting part - I only just found them, in a hidden folder on a completely unrelated drive in a completely different building."

"These were taken over a year ago. That one's almost _two_ years old."

"Yep, and those cameras are on a timed automatic wipe. Someone saved them, and no it wasn't me."

"It looks like you were right, they **did** know. And then they sent the assassin after John," Sherlock breathed. He didn't see John's face as he turned to look at Philip, "And someone at your firm is working for Moriarty."

Philip nodded and pursed his lips, "Good thing I'm working for you."

* * * *

_Mud._

_It was raining in Kandahar on the night he was shot. The bullet tore through his shoulder and the red red blood flowed out into the mud._

_"Give me your scarf," he said, "Nurse, put pressure on the wound."_

_" **Nurse?** "_

_"I'm improvising," he said, as he pressed the ink blue scarf against the blood red rain that flowed out of the hole in his partner's chest into the mud._

_"Could be dangerous," his nurse, his partner whispered, turning to look at him in his dove grey morning coat and ivory corsage, pupils blown wide in the rain. "You sit between the two people who love you most in the world."_

_And he turned to look and there was his bride in her ivory gown and she threw aside her veil and fired and the bullet tore through his shoulder, tore through his partner's chest, throwing them both down into the mud._

_'Mary...'_

_He turned to embrace the one who loved him most in all the world, burying his face in the warmth of a pale neck, pressing his lips to the pulse point there. His one true partner, his best friend, his perfect mate, who matched him so completely, fulfilling his needs and making him feel alive, worthy, wanted. Even their bodies matched perfectly, blood to blood, hand in hand, hip to hip, tongue to tongue, heart to mind..._

_'Afghanistan or Iraq?'_

_...cock to cock. He moaned - in ecstacy or agony, he wasn't sure, fingers tangled in an angel's dark curls, his own guardian angel. And they ground against each other, blood mingling in the mud, uniting them in purpose and lips and tongues until the flash of white fire and the sudden crack of..._

John snapped awake, panting heavily. Another peal of thunder rolled. John tried to get his breath back and tried not to think about the way his groin ached. A soft gasp distracted him. Beside him, Sherlock was tense, nearly frozen in place, emitting only thick, choked sounds as he struggled to breathe. He whimpered once, a desperate childlike sound. _Nightmare,_ John realised, _A nightmare like my nightmares. A PTSD nightmare, oh God... Sherlock..._ Another flash of lightning briefly lit up the room and he peered anxiously at Sherlock, who was

_wincing in the light of the helicopter's spotlamp, trying to shield his eyes from the glare_

_The dragon raised its head from atop its hill of coins. "I'm just a business man acquiring assets." It huffed out its foetid breath in laughter. He raised his hand, trying to peer through the smog. "There's no dragon for you to slay."_

_"Oh, do your research!" he shouted and fired._

_And the beast's head came apart, shattering into a million pieces revealing the bride clad all in white. She smiled and fired back. He fell back onto the tarmac, gasping in the glare._

_"John...!"_

_John knelt over him, "Let me examine that body."_

_"John... John...."_

_And John shook his head and smiled, petting his hair, pressing kisses to his forehead and crooning, "I'm not gay... Sherlock, I'm not gay... I'm not gay..."_

"I'm okay, Sherlock," John crooned softly, "You're alright. I'm okay. Sherlock, we're okay. I'm okay." He pressed a few more little kisses against Sherlock's hairline.

"I know," Sherlock sobbed, sounding so despondent that John wondered if the other man was still dreaming. He wrapped his arm around the taller man's shoulders and pulled him onto his chest, continuing to whisper and pepper his face with little kisses. 

Until Sherlock looked up in the darkness and a kiss fell onto his mouth instead of his forehead. 

It all got a little surreal after that.

* * * *

John lay on the couch, staring up at the ceiling. He wasn't seeing it. He was seeing that picture on Philip's case wall. It was grainy, pulled off of degraded footage from a security camera at a private airfield that Philip's company provided guards to. It had taken John several minutes to realise that the man under the long mane of shaggy hair was Sherlock. 

Sherlock, who hadn't cut his hair in two years. Sherlock, whose once-beautiful curls were matted with grime. Sherlock, whose clothes were stained with the blood that soaked through his bandages. Sherlock, freshly rescued by his big brother from an installation in Serbia, where he'd been held and tortured for days. Sherlock, beaming with joy, looking happier than John had ever seen him. 

_"I wasn't even thinking about the underground network. All I could think was 'Maybe I can see John again.'"_

He stared at the ceiling, seeing the memories that filled him with shame. 

_I wanted to hurt you. And I did. I hurt you so badly, you took cocaine for the pain. You never told me it was to save my life. You never once told me there were assassins on me. You were afraid to tell me. Why were you afraid?_

_Because I'm afraid._

Because Mary had been much like Sherlock, in all the right ways. She was brilliant, quick-witted and sharp-tongued, and never ever boring. She was short and fair where he was tall and dark, but in many ways she was very like him. 

Too much so. And she had rounded it out with kindness and compassion that appealed to John's sense of chivalry but were a sham, a complete sham. He'd witnessed her cruelty at Leinster Gardens. The more he thought about it, the more he realised that Mary was a lie crafted to appeal to John in every way, to be his perfect mate. What scared him was how much of that came from Sherlock.

Sherlock could be kind and surprisingly compassionate but he guarded those traits like precious jewels and showed them only to those who had earned the privilege. Sherlock was honest - he didn't do social niceties so one always knew where one stood with him. He knew he was an arse, had worked hard at it and polished into a protective armour, but buried deep underneath was a man capable of forgiving even Philip Anderson.

Sherlock was an arse, and kept John on his toes. He was mercurial, and kept John laughing or aggravated or curious or serious. He was needy, and John felt needed. He got into trouble, and John felt protective. He got hurt, and would submit only to John's medical skill. He exposed Mary, then let John make his own decisions. He let John go, and waited until he came back.

There was only one quality Sherlock was missing, and Mary had it.

"John?" He glanced over, realising that the door had opened and Sherlock had returned, carrying a fragrant bag over his arm, "I brought breakfast." 

John didn't answer nor did he get up from the couch. He just watched Sherlock move into the kitchen and take the cartons out of the bag, feeling an intense warmth welling up in his chest and rising, so much more than... oh. Damn. "'Afghanistan or Iraq,'" John said at last. Sherlock looked at him inquiringly. "That's what she said when she learned that I had been a soldier. 'Afghanistan or Iraq.' Exactly the same words you said." 

Sherlock nodded, "You're thinking that might not have been a coincidence."

"And that too," John said. He sat up as Sherlock brought him a dish loaded with breakfast and a cup of characteristically Sherlock tea (horribly brackish, over-steeped to the brink of being tar, over-compensated for with far too much milk and sugar) which John tried not to make a face at. They ate in silence for a while until John worked up the nerve to ask, "So... last night?" 

Sherlock immediately went stiff and apprehensive then looked away, "It won't happen again."

John paused, "What?" 

Sherlock shot up out of his chair and stomped towards the door, "I'm perfectly aware that you're not gay, John, you don't have to keep harping about it."

There were times when Sherlock's masks collapsed and he became shockingly easy to read. He'd been in love with John for a long time, knowing John would never return his feelings. Seeing John marry had hurt deeply but he'd picked up the knife and plunged it into his own chest because if he couldn't be John's love, he would be John's best friend. _Last night tore the wound open and now he's bleeding out,_ John realised, _You're the doctor - stop the bleeding._ He shot up off the couch and seized Sherlock's wrist, jerking him back and kicking the door shut. Then he wrapped his hand around Sherlock's neck, drew him down and kissed him. 

"I don't understand," Sherlock murmured against John's lips. 

John kissed him for a few more moments then drew back and tucked his head into the hollow of Sherlock's neck. "I guess I'm not as straight as I thought I was," he said at last. He sighed, "I don't know what the hell I am."

"Bisexual?"

John blinked; why had that never occurred to him before? "Maybe," he conceded, "Though I think it's just you."

_"Me?!"_

John started giggling. "Yes, you, you daft git," he sighed, "She was so much like you in so many ways. I guess I've realised why." He looked up. Sherlock was staring at him in uncomprehending silence and he started to grin. He'd seen this before -- Sherlock had had a tough enough time parsing that he was John's best friend, he was really going to have trouble parsing being his soulmate. "So... last night. Thoughts, opinions?" Sherlock was still silent, now looking uncertain as to what John expected him to say. "Was it alright for you?" 

"Yes... alright..." Sherlock agreed.

John chuckled against Sherlock's collarbone, "I have to say, it was rather literally a dream come true." He looked up again and smiled, "What do you like? Is there anything you like to do? Want to try?"

"Try?"

John thought he detected just a glimmer of faint hope in Sherlock's puzzled eyes. "Yeah. We can... experiment, if you like. It's all new to me. Is there anything you've wished you could do with me?"

"There is one thing..." Sherlock said hesitantly. 

John swallowed. "Alright, then. What is it?"

He submitted to being steered back to the couch and pushed down onto the seat. He thought he knew where this was going when Sherlock lay down on the couch and put his head in John's lap. Then, he took John's hand and guided it to rest on his hair, looking up at him with nervous eyes. "...Is this alright?"

John had to look away as his grin escaped. "This is what you want? For me to pet your hair?" Sherlock nodded. "All this time... out of everything... You want me to pet your hair."

".....Not good?"

John couldn't help but chuckle as warmth flooded through his chest and bubbled up into his throat. He flipped on the telly and settled in to stroke and play with the soft dark curls crowning his guardian angel's genius head. Sherlock tented his fingers beneath his chin and closed his eyes with a soft, soft smile. 

The door buzzer rang, long and sustained before cutting off abruptly as something thumped against the outside door. They shot each other a puzzled look. Then Mrs. Hudson screamed and they shot up off the couch and ran to the door. At the bottom of the stairs, Mrs. Hudson stood over the body of a young woman, collapsed across the threshold in an expanding puddle of blood.

It was Janine.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock comes to a realisation.

"Janine? Janine, can you hear me?"

"I've phoned for emergency, John."

"Get Anderson!" Sherlock barked into his mobile, "And give him whatever he needs."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. Janine? Stay with me, Janine, you're doing fine."

" **No** , not MacKenzie, **Anderson!** MacKenzie's an even bigger idiot than he was."

" _Nurse_ , go up to my room and get my extra gauze."

Without another word, Sherlock threw his phone down and bolted up the stairs. He thumped back down with the gauze and John's field kit. Lestrade's people were already pinning up tape but he spared them barely a glance. Instead he threw down the kit and looked at Janine. 

"Multiple stab wounds and she's been sliced across the throat," John told him, "She's been literally holding herself together, it's a wonder she's still alive." Then John looked at him and his eyes said, _But I don't know for how much longer._

Janine's eyes fluttered open, pleading. She lifted her hand and waved it weakly. John tried to calm her but she waved again, insistent and Sherlock did a double-take. "What was that?" He inhaled sharply, "A woman, brown hair, shoulder length -- John, she's signing."

"Race?" Sherlock looked up to see Detective Inspector Lestrade standing near, writing on his notepad, "Any indication of height?"

"Caucasian, average height," Sherlock translated, "She approached her on the street and tried to give her.. what, money? A bribe? What for? _Me?!_ \- She wanted you to give her information about me?" John sucked in his breath. "But you refused."

"Sherlock, she's weakening."

Sherlock shot an anxious look at John then looked up at Lestrade, who sighed and shook his head, "Pretty brazen, an attack like that in this area. I'll pull warrants for the cameras."

* * * * 

Philip arrived at 221b and hung back for a few moments to watch the scene. Lestrade's call had been brief but succinct. _Time to pull out all the stops, Phil,_ he told himself, _For whatever reason, he's counting on you._

He wanted a quick look at the victim, being attended by Doctor Watson and Sherlock Holmes. That's who they were now, he thought as he stepped into his Tyvek suit. People thought Sherlock was the dominant one because that's what they saw at crime scenes: Sherlock taking the lead, snapping out the orders, and John as his assistant. But that was at crime scenes; **this** was a medical emergency and the roles had turned. Doctor Watson was in charge here and Sherlock was his nurse, wordlessly obeying every command from the veteran captain's clipped voice. And just as admiring, Philip noticed. He zipped his suit and stepped forward, "Paramedics are almost here. Can I get a glance before they take her?"

John jerked his chin downward, "This one's the shallowest. We can't risk letting up on any of the others or we'll lose her for sure."

Philip nodded once, "That's fine, tells me what I'm looking for." Then he pulled on his gloves and turned to follow the blood path out of the door and down the street. He nodded as he passed his replacement, "Morning, MacKenzie."

"What are _you_ doing here?" the other technician snapped.

"Himself asked for me."

"I don't see why. They've got me!"

"This is where the event took place?" 

MacKenzie nodded, "Yeah. Hey, I've already tagged that!"

"Yes, so I see," Philip said as he set his own tag down. Then he stepped around the police tape and started down another sidewalk.

"Where are you going?"

"Following what you didn't tag," he replied absently, setting more tags down as he went. His eyes fell on something and he placed another tag and photographed it. _'You see but you don't observe, Anderson,'_ he remembered Sherlock saying, _'But you see more than most people and that's your strength.'_

* * * *

Everything hurt. The light was too bright and she lifted her hand to shield her eyes but got tangled in plastic tubing which jerked the needle burrowed under her skin. She tried to yelp and the pain in her throat flared so bad, she thought she might pass out. 

"Don't try to talk," said a familiar voice beside her, dimming the lights before taking her hand and gently detangling her. "Not that you can anyways.... oh. That might have been a bit not good, I'm supposed to give the good news first, aren't I." 

Janine smiled; this too was familiar. She blinked slowly to bring Sherlock into focus and lifted her hands, 'Yes.'

Sherlock chewed his lip, "Ummmmm... Right. Good news. The attack was caught on CCTV so there's a very good chance that I'll be able to identify who attacked you and I've got my best evidence man working on the crime scene. And it's still a fifteen percent chance that you'll be able to talk again." He stopped at her expression. "....Still not good. I wish John were here, this is his area, not mine."

Janine rolled her eyes. 'What happened?' she signed.

"The cut across your throat damaged your vocal cords," Sherlock said softly, "You can't talk now and there's an eight-five percent chance that you may never talk again."

Janine lay back and stared at the ceiling. Tears spilled from her eyes as the news sank in. They both looked up as a nurse bustled in and smiled at her, "Well hello there, you're awake!"

"Obviously," Sherlock muttered. Janine rolled her eyes and nodded as well as she could.

The nurse ignored Sherlock as she checked Janine's monitors and IV fluid levels. "How are you feeling? How is your pain? Have you thrown up yet? Are you hungry? Would you like some water?" She looked at her silent patient and smiled up at Sherlock, "Not feeling very talkative yet, is she?"

Sherlock pinched the bridge of his nose and counted to ten in Russian. "Have you actually checked her chart?" he said in a voice so self-restrained that Janine felt like applauding, "She _can't_ talk, her throat's been cut."

The nurse checked her iPad again, frowning, "Oh. Do we have to get an interpreter?"

Janine waved her hands and Sherlock winced. "She's only had a beginner class," he reported, "It wouldn't do her much good." He rummaged through Janine's purse and brought out her phone for her to type on.

After answering the nurse's questions, Janine tapped her phone again and Sherlock's text alert chimed. 'Can I even eat now?'

"Yes," he replied, "Although it will be painful, I'm sure. The cut did not penetrate through to your esophagus, though. Be very careful not to aspirate your food, however."

She smiled thinly and tapped some more. 'How am I going to find another job now if I can't talk? It was hard enough as it is after CAM.'

Sherlock had no answer for that. "Why didn't you call 999? Why didn't you text me? Why did you waste energy coming to 221b?"

'I had to warn you,' her text replied, 'If I died in an ambulance, you'd never have known that someone was after you again.' He nodded. 'Besides, I figured John was my best shot. And if he couldn't save me, you'd find out who killed me.'

"I will," Sherlock said softly, "I will find who did this to you. They will not get away with this. And you were right, John did save you."

Janine smiled. 'A woman approached me and asked if she could buy information from me about you. I guess she thought I still hated you enough. I said no. Then she offered to pay me to spy on you.' Sherlock's eyes narrowed. 'I told her to piss off. That's when she got violent. I fought her but she was really, really fast, like she'd been trained.' Sherlock tented his fingers, thoughtful. 'Sherl?' He glanced at her. 'What do you think my chances are?'

He stared at her in silence for too long. "I think there's a man I need to talk to."

* * * *

"You took pictures of _scratches?_ " MacKenzie sneered, "Those could be anything."

Philip shook his head, "Those are left by high heeled shoes."

"It doesn't mean the perp left them. Anyone could have made those." 

"Maybe. But I'm not ruling it out until Sherlock Holmes has."

MacKenzie rolled his eyes, "God, you have such a hard-on for that freak."

Philip stared at him. He felt like he was looking back in time.

"What?" MacKenzie said, shifting uncomfortably.

"A few years ago, I was just like you," Philip said softly, "Until I got a good man killed." MacKenzie swallowed and looked away.

"Afternoon, Philip."

Philip turned, barely able to keep his smile under control, "Afternoon, Sherlock. The CCTV images are up. How's the lady?"

"Mute but very informative," Sherlock replied, eyes scanning the array of images and samples. He examined the images of the attack intently, then took out his magnifying glass and looked very closely at the scratch pictures. 

"Oh Christ, not you too," MacKenzie groaned, "They're just **scratches** , for pete's sake! That pavement is walked over so much, anybody could have made them!"

"Hm, yes anybody," Sherlock murmured, "She was attacked here. Janine was wearing wedges, here. These marks here are made by designer stiletto heels, worn by the attacker."

"'Designer,'" MacKenzie said scornfully. Philip - wisely, for once - stayed quiet. "What makes you think they were designer?"

"Shape of the print," Sherlock said, "Most high-end designers craft a unique shape to their heels so that their wares are immediately recognisable."

"It's a high street! There must be hundreds of women in Manolo Blahniks walking it every day!"

"Perhaps," Sherlock straightened up, "But _these_ shoes were designed by Giuseppe Zanotti. Well done, Philip." And he spun about and strode out, his coat billowing behind him. 

* * * *

_Ockham's Razor_

His thoughts whirled all the way back to Baker Street. He jumped out of the cab and ran up the stairs into the flat, bursting through the door and ignoring John's yelp. He rushed immediately to the case wall and started rearranging the images. 

"Sherlock?"

_"Ockham's Razor."_

"Sherlock, what's going on?"

_The face in the CCTV was blurry but it's her._

"Sherlock, what the devil?"

_The shoes confirmed it. They're her shoes. I know the wear pattern of her feet._

"At least take your coat off, Sherlock!"

_I've seen them before. Every time she's out with her employer._

"Sherlock? Have you had a breakthrough, then?"

_"We never want to believe it when it's our own family."_

"Sherlock?"

_"If you go against Magnusson, you go against me."_

"Sherlock, slow down! You're tearing that."

_Someone just as brilliant_

"Sherlock, oy!"

_"I **am** the smart one."_

"Sherlock!"

_Sitting oh so quietly in the background_

"What's going on?"

_"I hold a minor position in the British government."_

"Sherlock?"

_"He **is** the British government."_

"Sherlock?"

_"Caring is not an advantage."_

"Sherlock? ...oh my god."

_"You were enjoying it!"_

"Oh my God... Sherlock, that's... is that Anthea? That's..."

_"We never want to believe it when it's our own family."_

"Oh God.. Oh God, Sherlock, you don't think...?"

_Ockham's Razor._

" **He's** at the centre of all of this?"

_Once you eliminate the impossible, then whatever remains_

"Oh my God.. **him?** "

_...must be the truth._

**"MYCROFT?"**


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Is Mycroft _really_ at the centre of it all? Did Anthea _really_ attack Janine? Is Archie _really_ not allowed to see Sherlock? And has Anderson really been sacked?

Mycroft felt his knees collapsing and shakily sank into a chair. "Me? You think it's... me?"

He wilted under his little brother's hard stare. "What has our research shown us? We know it's someone in MI6, someone with wide, nearly unlimited access to government resources. Someone as brilliant as Magnusson. Someone easily overlooked, easily dismissed as unimportant." Sherlock stared hard into his brother's eyes, "Someone ruthless and uncaring."

Mycroft gazed at the case wall again, eyes travelling over the images and threads. The pattern was simply undeniable. "My assistant reported her shoes had gone missing the other day. She felt they'd been stolen while she took a lunch hour yoga class," he said helplessly, "Sherlock, you can't possibly believe that it's me?"

Sherlock's hard gaze hadn't waivered, staring over the tips of his tented fingers. "Why did that clip play **then?** Anyone else would have waited until I was confirmed to have left the country. But you'd look for any excuse you could to keep your baby brother from flying off to die."

"I... That's true but... I... Such an obvious ploy, I..." Mycroft was dismayed to feel his eyes starting to sting, "You really believe that it's me? That **I'm** Moriarty?"

Sherlock glared at him silently. Then abruptly he snapped his legs apart and stood up, "No, I don't. But it's obvious that I'm meant to. I've made a mistake, we both have - we've been thinking this was all about me but it isn't. I'm just a distraction - this has all been about **you.** "

"Me?"

"Someone wants you out of the way. All of this - Westminster, Bruce-Partington, Irene Adler, arranging for me to fall, the Underground Network, Magnusson - all of it has been designed to smoke out just how much power you actually hold, then discredit you and bring you down. The timing of the clip and the attack on Janine, they're meant to disrupt my trust in you, make me think you'd turned against me. Which is preposterous," he added, "I already knew that."

Mycroft rolled his eyes in spite of himself, "Now _really_ , Sherlock."

Sherlock smirked and spun to face his big brother, "Someone else in MI6 is just like you. Someone else has much more power than they're believed to and they have a wide network of mostly silent operatives. Someone who knows the schedule of your assistant and knows that the one person you can't let go of is me. Somebody's figured you out and that means you're in big trouble because they're taking advantage of the one possibility that you could never, **ever** bring yourself to consider."

"And what is that?"

Sherlock's grin was wide, cold and mirthless, "That you're not the smart one."

* * * *

Philip was winding his way down Baker Street towards the Baker Street station when he heard the muffled sob. He looked around and blinked. "Archie? What are you doing there?" He held out his hand for the little boy to take. 

"Mummy says I'm not allowed to see Mr. Holmes anymore," the boy sobbed. 

Philip's heart sank, "Does she know you're here?" Archie shook his head. "Is she at work?" A nod. "Okay. Well... You stay with me and we'll let her know where you are, and when she comes to pick you up, I'll try to talk with her, alright?"

"Okay," the boy sniffled and thrust his hand into Philip's, "What are you doing?"

"Following up on a hunch," he replied, "Someone was attacked here yesterday by a lady in high heels. I'm getting a second look at her tracks leading up to the place of the attack."

Archie frowned, "How?"

"The heels are reinforced and they dug little chips and scratches into the pavement. Like here, see? So I'm looking for anything that might be unusual."

"Like what?"

"Like this," Philip said. He knelt by a scratch and photographed it, "A bit wiggly, isn't it?"

"What would cause that?"

Philip grinned, "Good question."

Archie tipped his head, thinking. "Maybe she stumbled and twisted her ankle!"

Philip grinned again, "Maybe she did." He looked around and saw a light standard near by, "If she stumbled, she might put her arm out to steady herself, wouldn't she?"

"I guess?"

"So maybe we should dust for fingerprints," Philip smiled. The lightpost was no doubt covered in thousands of finger prints but he knew a teaching opportunity when he saw one. He drew out his kit and showed Archie how to dust for prints. "Then we'll send these off to the Yard and they'll see if anything matches."

"Yeah!" Archie enthused. 

Philip's text alert went off and he looked at his phone. "Ah... There's your Mum. She's being held overtime again so.. Since she doesn't want you at Mr. Holmes's flat, how about you come round mine and I'll do up some tea?"

* * * *

Janine had drifted in and out of sleep on a haze of pain. Each time she woke, her guard had changed, though all flashed her the identification required to set her mind at ease. Each time, she woke long enough to eat a bit and get some more painkiller, then dozed off again. 

This time, there was a young man seated next to her bed. She glanced at her guard, who nodded with a polite smile. She looked back at the young man, who was writing on a tablet. He showed her the tablet, then lifted his hands. 'Hello,' he signed, 'My name is Peter Hopkins. I used to be a client of Sherlock Holmes. He asked me to visit.'

Immediately she was interested and tried to sit up a little. 'Why?' she signed.

Peter cleared his tablet and wrote on it again, again showing the tablet so she could read while he signed, 'I have taught British Sign Language for thirteen years. I am Deaf.' He caught her interested gaze and winked, 'And single.'

Janine smiled.

* * * * 

"How's that?"

"Yummy!"

"Okay then," Philip chuckled. The door bell rang and he went to open it, "Mrs. Andrews, how are you?"

"Thank you so much for taking him, Mr. Anderson," Mrs. Andrews directed a scolding glare at her son, "And you are in big trouble, young man!" Archie wouldn't look at her and she looked back at Philip, "He's not supposed to leave his after-school care without permission."

"I don't like it there. They hate me."

Mrs. Andrews sighed in exasperation, "They don't hate you, Archie."

"Yes they do! Everyone hates me! Everyone except Mr. Holmes!"

"OY, what am I, chopped liver?" Philip protested. Archie shook his head. "Chopped chops?" Archie started to grin, shaking his head again. 

"I just don't think he's a good influence on you and those chops were the last straw," Mrs. Andrews shuddered.

Philip looked at her, sensing an opening, "The chops weren't Sherlock's fault."

"I know, but...."

"The... chops... were dispersed widely. Archie's school was only one of literally hundreds of canteens, including the one where I work."

"Where you...??"

Philip nodded, "Yes, I had one too. It was the second time, for me."

"The second??"

"The first time was several years ago now. It was one of the first cases I worked with Sherlock and it was Italian sausages."

"Oh my God! Then... when he said fennel..."

Philip nodded again, "Sherlock and I are... probably the only people in his life right now who can truly understand the horror that Archie felt. And the guilt, even though there was nothing he could do to prevent what was happening and no way he could know."

"I... I know but I.. I just don't think Mr. Holmes is a good influence for Archie," Mrs. Andrews said fretfully, looking at her sulking son, "Now he only wants to listen to the classical music station and he wanted Judo lessons because Mr. Holmes has a black belt and he doesn't want to watch the telly anymore and he wants a microscope for Christmas..."

Philip was fighting to keep from chuckling but was unsuccessful in suppressing his grin. "I think most parents **wish** their sons would want those things, instead of playing video games, rap music and chasing after girls."

Mrs. Andrews sighed, "I know but... Archie already has a hard time fitting in and being accepted. This is... It's only going to make it harder for him."

Philip sat back and thought about it. He thought about Sherlock. He thought about his own life, bullied as a child, and how he'd grown up to do the bullying. And then he thought about Sherlock's brother. "It's always going to be hard," he said finally, "It's like... putting horns on a horse and painting it up to look like a cow. It may look sort of like a cow but it's still a horse and all the other cattle know it."

Mrs. Andrews sighed again, now looking at her hands in her lap. "It's so hard for him. He's always getting held back because he corrects his teachers and the other children pick on him and he's getting into fights and his father..."

"His father?" Philip prompted. It was the first time either of them had mentioned Archie's father.

"Ever since Archie was diagnosed, his father's been convinced that he'll never amount to anything. He just... gave up on him and said the most terrible things, in Archie's hearing!"

"What happened?"

"Well I divorced his arse, didn't I!" She sighed again, "To be honest, things were already falling apart between us. That was just the last straw, saying such terrible things to a child, his own son! He can't help the way he is!"

"Yes," Philip said. The silence stretched out. "Mr. Holmes sees a lot of himself in Archie, I'm certain of it. And he... suffered a lot. And he knows how Archie is suffering and... how he might suffer in the future if he **doesn't** have someone in his life who is like him, someone he can relate to and turn to. Please don't take that from him."

Mrs. Andrews glanced over at her son, who was pushing his dessert around on his plate, listening. "I just... I don't think it's appropriate, the things he tells Archie. About... criminals and forensics."

"Mr. Holmes doesn't lie to me," Archie grated out stubbornly, "An' he doesn't not tell me stuff just because I'm a kid!"

"It's not appropriate! And Mr. Anderson, I know you're Sherlock's friend and I appreciate what you're doing..."

"Actually, I used to hate Sherlock."

That brought her up short. "What?"

Philip nodded, "I hated him. I thought he was a freak. Once upon a time, I would have agreed with you but... I've learned there's a lot more to Sherlock Holmes than just eyeballs in the microwave." 

* * * * 

Sherlock had been pacing the flat for most of the evening. He'd stop occasionally to stare at the casewall again then he'd be back at it, striding back and forth, occasionally stalking out to the kitchen then stalking back in. "What is it?" John said from behind his newspaper. 

"It's Anthea's footprints. Something is off about them."

John flipped the newspaper down to look at Sherlock, "They still haven't found any footage? All they have are still images? With all those cameras, you'd think one of them would have gotten video."

"They were tampered with," Sherlock replied, "They left the images so that we would see that it was Anthea but they took the video because we would see that it was _not_ Anthea."

"Are you thinking... maybe it's....?" 

They stared at each other, the name hanging between them like the sword of Damocles. Then Sherlock's mobile broke the silence. "Yes?" He frowned, "What do you mean, where did you find fingerprints? Email them to me, I want a good look at them. Really? - Well he was right, that's exactly what happened, by the look of it. She's unused to heels that high and stumbled." Then Sherlock's mouth and eyes opened wide, " _ **That's**_ what was off about them! The strike was all wrong! The strike was heel-first, walking from the knee but women in high heels strike toe-first and walk from the hip! **That's** what was bothering me! Who's the match?" John couldn't help but smile as Sherlock grinned fiercely. "Well done, both of you." He cut the call and looked at John, "It's not Mary, it's a man. A man unfamiliar with women's clothing. He's in the Met's database, he's a known rogue assassin."

"But we still don't know who hired him?"

"No, but we do know _why._ " 

* * * *

The sound of Sherlock's text chime startled John awake. His eyes snapped open, hand automatically reaching for his gun - still, after all these years. Once again, he wondered if he would ever lose that habit. Once again, he wondered if Sherlock was actually safe, sleeping with him. He winced as the phone screen lit up, temporarily blinding him. "What is it?"

"Anderson," Sherlock's voice was gravelly with sleep. 

"At this hour?"

"He's on shift."

"Ah, right. What's he want now?"

"I don't know. He's sending a picture he took just now at Hatton Garden."

John shuddered at the name, remembering the events that happened there. Then he realised the bed was still moving and that Sherlock was shivering. "Sherlock? You cold?" No answer. The shivering turned to quaking and he realised that Sherlock had started to hyperventilate. "Sherlock? What is it? What's he sending you?" He squinted to look at the image that was downloading onto the mobile phone screen. _"Jesus **fuck!** "_

* * * *

Philip stared numbly down at the package in his hands. He wasn't as surprised as he thought he would feel; part of him had apparently been expecting this. Or maybe he'd just hated the job that much. But no matter how much one hates a job, it still hurts to be sacked. He knew that withdrawing security footage and files without warrants was a sacking offense but he also knew that it had been worth it. At least he'd gotten that last picture off to Sherlock before they sacked him.

Now he was out of a job. Again. He paid for his tea and put on his jacket. It was a long walk to his car, parked on the far side of the parking lot across the street, and it was chilly out with a thick fog rolling in. He pressed the remote starter button on his key fob and stepped out into the street. 

And was blown back by the shockwave as a car exploded.

_His_ car.

He had barely processed that when he realised that two men were approaching him and a black van was squealing around the corner. Reacting purely on instinct, Philip threw his tea at one man and tried to punch the other as the van door slid open and a third man leaned out. The second man grappled Philip and he felt something jab him in the neck. 

His vision blurred and he felt his mind and body turning to pins and needles as he slumped. As he was being manhandled into the van, the last thing he saw before he blacked out was a figure tapping away on a Blackberry.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock finally realises what he's been missing all along... because he's been so very, very ordinary.

_Not possible. It wasn’t possible. It **couldn’t** be him, it **couldn’t** , he was **dead**. So very dead. I watched him **die** , I watched him put that gun into his mouth and pull the trigger. I watched the blood bubble up through his mouth and nose and stream from his open head, I watched his eyes turn to glass, I saw his grin. I saw…_

_I saw…_

_I smelled… Oh God the smell, I can never forget that smell, I can’t, that smell, overpowering John, that…_

_John._

He inhaled sharply and his nostrils filled with the smell of stale aftershave, shampoo, lanolin, warmth and sleep fragrance - _John_ \- and the roof of Barts shattered into confusion.

John, who had maneuvered Sherlock until he was lying with his head on John’s shoulder, where the scent of him was strongest. _Smell is the surest route to memory._ John, who was stroking Sherlock’s hair. _Love when he does that._ John, who was murmuring reassurances that he was fine, that Sherlock was fine and he was just caught in a flashback, just a memory, it was in the past. _Flashback. How humiliating. I don’t have flashbacks. I don’t get stuck in memories._ “Don’t be ridiculous,” Sherlock tried to huff, but it came out weaker than he liked. 

“You with me now?” John asked gently.

“Obviously.” _Apparently, I do now._

“Good. It got me, too. I went right back there with you.” Sherlock looked up at John, face creased with the pain of realizing just how much John still suffered - because of him. “Hey, none of that, now,” John said tenderly, “I’m still here, yeah?” Sherlock looked away and John pressed a kiss against his temple. “How be if I get us both a cuppa, then we’ll take a good look at this and see if it’s really him, alright?”

Sherlock grumbled and rolled to let John get up. He sat up and realized to his disgust that he was shaking. John said nothing, making the tea to give Sherlock some time to get himself back under control. He forced himself calm and, prepared for it now, looked at the photograph again. “’Jim from IT,’” he said.

John came in and handed Sherlock his mug, “What was that?”

“Moriarty was an IT technician. That was his cover.”

John nodded, “Like a janitor or a security guard. They can move around quite a bit and nobody really notices them, but they have access to just about everywhere. This fellow’s using the same cover?”

“Security IT, by the look of it.”

“So he’s in demand in the highest places and has access to all of the monitoring equipment. Brilliant.”

“This is almost certainly who Magnusson was signalling.”

“With the plant?” Sherlock nodded. “So they’d been working together for a long time, then.”

Sherlock nodded again, “There’s a lot more at play here than it looks like. We thought I’d taken down Moriarty’s network but it looks like what I took down was **just** _Moriarty’s_ network.”

“Meaning there’s more than one."

"Meaning there’s more than one.”

“ **Fuck,** ” John sighed. “I can’t get over how much he looks like Moriarty. They’re practically twins.”

“He’s older. Not by much but still.” Sherlock transferred the image onto his laptop and pulled up a photograph of Jim Moriarty to put beside it. “Look, here and here… The blood vessel patterns don’t match. And look here, this mole. This isn’t the same man, despite the close resemblance.”

John nodded then shook his head, “I can’t shake the feeling that he reminds me of somebody else too, but I can’t think who.”

Sherlock glanced at him then printed off the photograph and pinned it to the case wall. His text alert chimed and he glanced at it, then looked almost relieved. “That’s him out of the way.”

“What?” John asked, “That’s who out of the way?”

* * * *

His head pounded and his mouth tasted like the inside of a Jaeger pilot’s boot — those were the first things he was aware of. Not that he’d ever tasted the inside of a Jaeger pilot’s boot, but anyways. Philip groaned and sat up, working his tongue to try to get saliva. 

What the hell had happened? This didn’t feel like a hangover and he didn’t remember having anything to drink last night… What **did** he remember? He remembered getting sacked. He remembered a… fireball? And… Oh. He opened his eyes cautiously and looked around. 

He was in a cosy bedroom with a steeply pitched ceiling. A look out of the small window showed trees, lots of trees. A forest? _Cabin in the woods scenario?_ he wondered. 

The door was unlocked. He opened it and made his way slowly to the staircase. The sitting room was pleasantly furnished with a television set, computer, and a coffee table. On the coffee table, there was an envelope, a mobile phone, and an array of official documents - passport, driver’s license, working visa, citizenship application papers. They all bore his face, but they were all filled out for ‘Geoffrey Fallon.’ Then he noticed something else - a badge identifying him as a member of the Ontario Provincial Police forensics investigation department. 

He opened the envelope and unfolded the letter inside.

_Philip -_

_You’ve gotten better at your job but in many ways, you’re still an idiot. I knew there would be trouble when I saw the kinds of leads you were chasing. It wasn’t long before you’d started attracting attention. Whomever is behind all of this, you were getting too close for their comfort and they want you out of the way, so I have obliged them. There were two teams assigned to dispose of you so it had to be arranged so that each team would think that the other team had gotten you._

_You are officially listed as a missing person in England and a new identity has been created for you in Canada. I called in a few favours with my contacts in the OPP to have you instated in your old career. You will be working with Sergeant Gregson, who is aware of the situation. I worked with him a few times during my time with Interpol. He is tolerable._

_I do not know when you will be able to return to England. It may be best to believe your cover story and behave as though it is permanent. The only advice I can offer is that you try to enjoy your experiences and make the best of it. I have tried to ensure that your life in Canada will be satisfactory._

_\- SH_

Philip re-read the letter several times as it all sank in. His car had been bombed. Someone had tried to kill him. Someone had tried to kill him. He hoped Sherlock had gotten that last picture, that guy had looked uncannily like that Moriarty fellow. 

And then they’d tried to kill him. Thank God for remote car starters or he’d be dead now. 

He got up and went into the kitchen of the little house. It was well appointed and spacious for the size of the house, also well stocked. He found tea and a kettle and made himself a cuppa as he looked around. There were car keys hanging from a hook near the boot room door, and a receipt for several months’ rent on the kitchen table. There were also several maps - apparently he was in a region called ‘Muskoka’, on the outskirts of the town of Bracebridge. Several close-in maps showed the location of the house and the routes to the nearest shopping, town centre, and the OPP office where he’d be reporting. Everything was made out to Geoffrey Fallon.

_I’m the exile now,_ Philip thought sadly, _’As you sow, so shall you reap.’ Because of me, he had to fake his death and leave everything he knew, everyone he cared about. Now it’s my turn._

He sipped his tea and turned to explore the house a bit. _Someone tried to kill me._ The thought kept flitting about the edges of his mind. There was only one bathroom but it was nicely appointed with a frosted-glass window and a deep tub. There was a back door, a laundry and a pantry, and two additional bedrooms. _Nice house for a family,_ he thought. The front door clearly wasn’t used, shown by the position of the furniture; normal access was apparently through the boot room door into the kitchen. _Someone tried to kill me._ The boot room itself, a small corridor between the inner and outer doors, contained coat hooks, shoe rack, and a number of recreational items - skis, paddles, and some odd-looking devices that he would later learn to be snow shoes. 

There was a garden to the front and another to the side, and trees all around. The house sat on a five-acre plot, half of it wooded, with a small pond, a few sheds, and what he would later discover was a boathouse. _Someone tried to kill me._ A modest car sat in the garage and he realised he would have to learn how to drive on the right side of the road. He hoped he wouldn’t cause a crash on his way to work. _Sherlock saved my life._

**That** thought brought him up short. Sherlock had seen it coming. Sherlock had known that someone would try to kill him and he hadn’t warned Philip. He sat down on the door steps to think about that. He hadn’t warned Philip; instead he’d planned to take him out of the danger zone. Taken him out of the country entirely and plunked him down in the backwoods in a flyspeck of a town, where he’d have to be somebody else, some immigrant named Geoffrey Fallon. Where he could do forensics again. 

He looked up at the crunch of tyres on the gravel driveway, stiffening with apprehension as the driver rolled down his window. “Oh sure,” the man called with a grin, “I go to get a doughnut and you wake up while I was gone.” He parked the car and got out to offer his hand, “I’m Tom Gregson, sergeant with the OPP. Agent Sigerson asked us to look after you while he ‘sorted it out’, as he put it.”

“’Agent Siger-’ oh, you mean.. I mean, yes, I’m… apparently in a spot of trouble,” Philip said. 

Gregson nodded, “Come on in and have a doughnut and we’ll go over everything you need to know. Don’t worry, I’m here to show you the ropes.”

“I would definitely appreciate a few driving lessons.”

“We’ll do that, too,” Gregson nodded. He regarded Philip sympathetically, “I guess this is going to be a big change for you, you being a London boy. A lot to get used to.”

“Well,” Philip sighed and accepted a doughnut, “At least I’m alive to get used to it.”

* * * *

Photographs of Sherlock and Mycroft, most separate, some of the two together, faces trying to out-dour one another. Their physical resemblances were few. Looking only at their photographs, one would not realise they were related, let alone brothers.

A photograph of young John Watson with his older brother Jack Watson, before the latter’s death at the age of twenty-five. There was no mistaking their family relationship — they were practically twins, despite being three years apart. 

Photographs of John Watson and Harriet Watson. As with Sherlock and Mycroft, one wouldn’t realise they were siblings, looking only at their images. 

All were linked by a thread. All were captioned “Full siblings.”

Bonus pictures: The full Holmes family and the full Watson family. A sticky note had been tacked onto Mycroft with “family rumours about milkmen untrue” scribbled on it, making John snigger. Both were captioned “Parentage verified.” With the parents in the pictures, John could pick out the little details where the other siblings did indeed resemble one or other parent, but had apparently inherited the recessive physical traits. 

The group were linked to another group, this time of the known Moriartys: “Jim from IT,” “Jim Moriarty,” “Richard Brook,” “Ludmila Dyachenko,” “Mary Morstan,” “Mary Watson,” “Unknown from IT.” Under “Jim Moriarty,” several pictures were pinned, but were linked back either to “Jim from IT” or to “Unknown from IT.” John stared as the implications sank in. “Oh, you’re kidding me…! Are you telling me that…?”

“That ‘Jim Moriarty’ was an identity shared between two brothers with a close enough resemblance to be taken for the same man in the absence of additional information.”

“ **Fuck!** ”

“While normally I don’t indulge in profanities, that was about my reaction when I figured it out, myself,” Sherlock sighed and scraped his hands through his hair.

“That does explain a lot, though,” John said.

Sherlock nodded, “It does, and they aren’t the end of it. We’ve uncovered evidence to suggest the existance of a ‘Professor Moriarty,’ if you will. We’d thought it was Jim but with the realisation that this is centred around Mycroft, not me, that’s changed the picture quite a bit and allowed us to uncover quite a bit more information.”

John couldn’t resist, “What was that you were always saying to Anderson? ‘Never theorise until you have all the facts?’”

Sherlock flashed him a quick grin then waved a hand at the case wall. “Look again, John. Take a look at the other photographs and tell me if you see the same thing that I’m seeing.”

“These are all… what, people blackmailed by Magnusson?”

“His victims, yes.”

John let his eyes skim over the images, flitting back and forth between them and the “Moriarty” family. “Hang on…” Sherlock smirked. “Seriously!?”

“Anderson uncovered quite a lot about Moriarty’s father. ‘Arrogant, businessman, travelled a lot, serial adulterer, suspected of embezzelling but no proof.’”

“ **Lord Smallwood?!** ”

“Making sense now?”

“Not really, no. Magnusson was blackmailing Lord Smallwood. Why would he do that if he was working for ‘Moriarty?’”

“Obvious, John, it was a power play. Magnusson had Mycroft’s protection, remember? And remember how arrogant he was?”

“God yes,” John sighed, “If you’d told me **he** was Moriarty’s da, I’d believe it without question.”

“Not unless he’d fathered Jim when he was twelve,” Sherlock chuckled, “And even younger when this unknown older brother was born. Although not outside the realm of possibility, it is nevertheless unlikely.”

“Also revolting,” John agreed, “So the blackmail was a ploy to take over the business?”

“Undoubtedly. A man like him would not be content to remain in a lieutenant’s role for long. No doubt he saw Jim’s death as an opportunity.”

John nodded, “And I guess that explains why he went for the adultery angle, if he wanted to take over the business himself.”

“Not _only_ that,” Sherlock said. He reached out and touched a thread running from Lord Smallwood’s picture, “Remember that Magnusson was also threatening someone else.”

“Yes, Mary, but… Oh…”

“Over his lifetime, Lord Smallwood had many affairs with many underage young women. He had one in 1974 that produced a daughter.”

“ _Mary._ ” John shook his head then looked up, “But he committed suicide anyways, even though his wife came to you to intervene.”

Sherlock nodded, tenting his fingers beneath his chin, “Well, clearly I had failed, having been shot and hospitalised. But you’re right, that’s the part that’s puzzling me. That’s the part that doesn’t fit. There’s something else at play here and I’m missing it.”

* * * *

_Did you miss me?_

_Did you miss me?_

_Did you miss me?_

He stared at the gif, daring it to reveal its secrets.

_”Neither of us were the first, you know.”_

His head whipped around to stare at Mary. _”You don’t know anything about human nature, do you?”_ He reached out to take her hand. 

_”No! **NO!** ”_ The bite of a hypodermic piercing his coat and skin and he fell forward and crashed to the floor. _”Brainy is the new sexy,”_ the woman purred. 

_”Molly? Molly! Help me…”_

But Molly shook her head bitterly, _”I don’t count.”_

_”You’re a very stupid little boy.”_ He tried to whip his head around to stare at the shadow who was speaking but his body wasn’t cooperating. _”Such a disappointment. Mummy and Daddy are very cross.”_

_”I’m not stupid!”_ he protested.

_”Your parents have a lot to answer for, young man,”_ Mrs. Hudson sniffed disapprovingly. She held up a bottle and set it on the coffee table next to John’s chair, _”I managed to sneak it out when they thought I was having a cry.”_

The smell of perfume made him gag and he swung his head to see the woman in black standing over the man. _”Mary…”_

The man looked at him anxiously, _“That… That’s not Mary Watson, Mr. Holmes.”_ Before she swung her gun around and fired. 

_”Such a disappointment.”_

He swung his head again. _”I’m disappointed in you, **ordinary** Sherlock,” Jim accused, “It turns out you’re **ordinary,** just like them. That’s your weakness, you always want everything to be clever. Well, good luck with that.”_ And the blood gushed from his mouth and nose and from his open head.

_”Somebody’s put a bullet in my boy,” Mummy said as the shadows fell away from her face, “I shall turn absolutely monstrous.”_

Sherlock gasped awake, choking for air. _**Fuck!**_

The bed was empty - John had already gone to work. He shivered as though freezing, hating himself because he knew it was his nerves. He got up and went to splash his face. _Idiot, idiot, idiot! I **have** been stupid, I’ve been **ordinary** and because I’ve been so stupid and ordinary, I’ve missed what’s been **right in front of me** the whole time!_

He went out to the living room and rearranged some of the pictures, staring as the new pattern revealed the answer. _Somebody in MI6. Someone with power and influence. Someone who knows Mycroft intimately enough to know his pressure points and his assistant’s schedule. Somebody who’s easily overlooked because she’s **female** and I’m **still** making that mistake! We gathered all that information about Moriarty’s father but never once considered Moriarty’s **mother!**_

* * * *

The London fog turned the sunset to shades of grey-gold and beige as the afternoon ground on to evening and the meeting showed every sign of continuing until late. They met to discuss the Canadian incident and whether it indicated an impending escalation, or whether it was truly an isolated self-radicalisation, as the early investigation implied. They would be breaking for a meal soon. _Not soon enough,_ Mycroft thought, rubbing his temple. 

He longed to retreat to the opulant quiet of Diogenes but that luxury wasn’t to be had tonight. He checked his Blackberry but none of his texts had been answered. That wasn’t unusual in itself; Sherlock often did ignore him. But Sherlock had been awfully quiet for the past few days and it was beginning to worry him. He pecked a quick text off to his assistant and went to pour a cup of tea. 

Fifteen minutes later, his text alert chimed and what he read made him roll his eyes and grit his teeth. _Again?! What the hell’s happened to John?_ He pecked off another text but got no answer and that **was** unusual - John always answered Mycroft’s texts. There was nothing for it, then.

“I apologise, Lady Smallwood,” he said quietly, “But I have been informed that my brother appears to have fallen off the wagon once again. It appears I have to go and extricate him.”

She nodded understandingly, “Of course, Mycroft, of course. Family must always come first. I doubt these discussions will gain much more, they appear to be going around in circles now.”

“Thank you, Lady Smallwood,” Mycroft smiled his polite smile, maintaining it as he turned to leave, maintaining it all the way down until he was in his car.

He was driven to a truly disgusting area of London. He shook his head, looking up at the dilapidated crack house. _For God’s sake, Sherlock, **why?**_ But the answers lay inside. He checked his weapons then nerved himself and went in. 

It stank of mould and human detritus. He could see no one but from the far room came the soft sounds of a violin. He stepped into the room and stared. “You brought your violin to a place like _this?_ ” 

Sherlock, sitting on the floor, a syringe lying next to him, rolled his head and then his eyes, glowering. “Get out,” he said.

“For heaven’s sake, Sherlock, what set you off this time?”

“Piss off, Mycroft, it’s none of your business.”

“You’re my **brother** , Sherlock, that makes it my business—*” His hand darted out like a snake, seizing the wrist that had brushed against his suit jacket, and twisting to bring the owner around to face him. Mycroft frowned, surprised to find that he recognised the pickpocket. “Hold up, you’re that Billy Wiggins fellow, aren’t you?”

“That’s me, Mister ‘Olmes.”

“Did _you_ drag my brother into this-*” he yelped at the bite of a needle piercing through his suit and shirt into his skin. His head whipped around in time to recognise Sherlock before his vision started swimming. 

“You’re certain this will hold him, Billy?”

“’Til we’re half there, then I’ll give him a booster, same as I did for Mr. Anderson.”

Mycroft’s body was sagging as he fought the numbness that was overwhelming him. He was dimly aware of being picked up between two people. “I still don’t like this.”

“Do you have any better ideas yet, John?”

“No, but I still don’t like it.”

And then, as the cold, clammy evening air spilled over him, the voice of his assistant saying, “If I might make a suggestion, sir?”

* * * *

It was a crisp and sunny morning. The sun, not far above the horizon, filtered through the curtains. He groaned and touched his pounding head then pulled the blankets up over himself to block out the light. Ugh. What on earth had happened? The last time he woke up feeling so terrible, it was because Sherlock had… His eyes slammed open and he actually cussed, because Sherlock had _again._

Slowly Mycroft sat up and looked around. He was in a small bedroom with a window and a night table, in a bed well laden with quilts against the chill. There was a glass of water and some paracetemol on the night table. He took them then peered through the curtains. Dawn still coloured the sky but the view was not anything that Mycroft had expected. _Where the hell am I?_

He stood up and found that his suitcase had been thoughtfully provided, packed with his usual pajamas and dressing gown, slippers, and an assortment of casual clothes. He noted that some of the clothes were new. He pulled on his dressing gown and rubbed his arms against the chill, then stepped out of the bedroom. 

He was in a cottage. The living room was small, with an old iron wood stove, currently radiating welcome heat. Two couches, a telly, a large dining table, books and DVDs galore, and a bank of windows overlooking the same view of the lake and trees and the multicoloured forest on the opposite shore. There was a letter on the dining table and he picked it up.

_“Philip -_

_Please take care of Mycroft, he is my big brother. I’d hoped never to have to repay any of his favours but there has been a change in circumstances. Mycroft isn’t as social as I am so you needn’t worry about making conversation or being entertaining or any of that sort of thing. (He owns a club where absolute silence is the rule. Even the porters must muffle their feet.) Will come to collect him when it is safe to do so._

_\- SH”_

_’Philip,’ that would be Philip Anderson, Sherlock’s little fanboy who’s car was bombed last month. So I’m in Canada, then,_ Mycroft thought and read the letter again. The use of ‘please’ stood out strongly, as did the statement ‘he is my big brother’, though Anderson already knew of their relationship. _He must have thought my life was in danger,_ he thought. He’d done many ‘favours’ for Sherlock over the years, but saving Sherlock’s life would be the ones indicated by those uncharacteristic statements. 

He became aware of the sound of whistling and looked up as a figure approached the door, kicked it open, and banged through, carrying a couple of fish. “Oh, hello!” he said cheerily, “Right on time!” 

Mycroft put on his polite smile and stepped into the small kitchen, “Hello again, Mr. Anderson.” 

“There’s tea in the kettle on the wood stove if you fancy a cuppa. And I’ll have breakfast up in a jiff, just as soon as I get these gutted.” 

Mycroft looked away as Philip withdrew a wickedly sharp filleting knife. “Where, exactly, am I, Mr. Anderson?”

“We’re on one of the lakes in Muskoka County, in Ontario, Canada,” Philip replied, “Sherlock’s letter said you like it quiet and given the circumstances, we thought it might be best to get you off the grid entirely. There’s no cellular coverage out here.”

Mycroft sniffed, “He believes the danger to be that great?”

Philip looked at him, “Since he figured out that Lady Smallwood is Moriarty’s mother, yeah I think he kinda does.”


End file.
